Looking for Henry Turner

by W. L. Liberman

  “And I believe you have some items that belong to us.”

  Tobin didn't have the look of a guy who liked to be crossed but I could see he'd immersed himself in deep thought. He smiled but it wouldn't have melted an icicle.

  “Okay, Gold. I know you're a tough guy, you and your partner both. Take a seat and we'll all try to act a little more civilized, okay?”

  “Speak for yourself.” But I sat back down.

  Tobin cleared his throat. “Why are you looking for Liu Chen?”

  “Who?”

  Tobin slid a photograph across the desk. I picked it up. It appeared to be the same girl as in the photo I found in Ying's flat. I flashed it to Birdie. “I don't know her name,” I said. “I just found her photo.”

  “Where.”

  “In Ying Hee Fong's flat.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Looking for clues. That's what I normally do when I'm working a case.”

  “What sort of clues?”

  “Don't know until I find'em,” I said.

  “Who's the client?”

  I shook my head. “That's confidential. Of course, you could try and beat it out of us.” And I glanced at Blotchy Face who, suddenly, had an eager, almost hungry expression.

  “That won't be necessary,” Tobin said, as if he'd given it some thought. He stubbed out the fag. “So you don't know the girl in the photo?”

  “No.”

  “She's Ying's sister–and we're looking for her.”

  Join the club, I thought and remembered the guy I'd winged and the feel of his sap on my head. “Why?”

  “She's a material witness,” Tobin replied as if that answered the question.

  “To what?”

  Tobin smiled. “Sorry. My turn. It's confidential.”

  “Why do you care about her or Ying?”

  Tobin picked up his pen and tapped the end of it on the desk. Then he sighed as if he'd made a momentous decision. “Ying was our snitch. He was giving us good stuff on John Fat Gai, who I understand, is a friend of yours?”

  Well, well. Ying got around. He was snitching for just about everybody. Who else, the Boy Scouts? “I wouldn't call him a friend. Far from it.”

  “He's a dangerous man. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that.”

  “Your concern is very touching.” And Birdie guffawed. “Now, what do you want, Inspector?”

  Tobin picked up Liu Chen's photo. “You find her, you let us know, simple as that.”

  “Now why would I want to do that?”

  “Because you're a good Samaritan and a pillar of the community, and anything you do to help us put John Fat Gai away will be seen in a favourable light and you never know when that could come in handy.”

  “You're appealing to our sense of patriotism.”

  “That's right,” Tobin replied. “Got it in one, Sergeant.”

  This time I stood for good.

  “We're reasonable men, Inspector. We'll think about it and if we find Liu Chen before you do then we'll do the right thing, I can assure you.”

  Tobin's face clouded. I hadn't delivered the answer he wanted. “We can make things unpleasant if we have to.”

  “Heard that before,” Birdie boomed.

  “Wouldn't help you find her, though, would it?”

  “Maybe not.” Tobin stood up. He didn't hold out his hand. “Cut'em loose,” he said.

  Blotchy Face made a move to lay a hand on my arm but I put a hand on his chest and pushed.

  “Keep your distance,” I said.

  He started to go for me but one of his barren-faced brothers held him back. The third guy placed our hardware carefully on Tobin's desk, where we picked it all up, checked that everything still worked and all parts remained present and accounted for, then stowed them all away in various pockets and holsters. Then we took our leave.

  “Been a pleasure,” I said but Tobin didn't even look up. He'd got back to his report writing.

  We stayed silent in the elevator down to the lobby. An elderly couple along for the ride edged away from Birdie. He ignored it but I noticed. We strode through the lobby. Outside, I said to the doorman. “Whistle us up a cab, would you?”

  The guy saluted. “Sure thing.” And that's what he did, let out a piercing blast from between pursed lips then waved his arm. A cab turned the corner and slid up to the curb. “There you go.” I gave the guy a buck.

  “You're wasted in this job,” I said.

  The doorman laughed. “I've been telling myself that for years. Beats hawking programs at the Argos home games though.”

  I laughed with him. “Yeah, guess it does at that.” We slid into the back and the cab took off. The cabbie meant business. I gave our address. We rode along for a few seconds.

  “You thinking what I'm thinking?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Here's what we figured: if Callaway had been the only guy downtown who ran Ying as a snitch and the feds were doing the same thing without Callaway knowing about it, then the leak, or whoever took Ying out, must work for the cops or the feds. Me, I put my money on Blotchy Face. He looked shifty. Proving it was another thing.

  15

  I found Callaway at his favourite watering hole—a dump called The Embassy on Dundas Street just a little east of Yonge. He had a tumbler full of Canadian Club and wrestled with a slab of leather billed as a steak. Callaway sawed at it diligently. When he managed to break a piece off, he swirled it around in viscous-looking gravy and popped it into his mouth where he took a short eon to chew it into oblivion before giving up and swallowing it whole. I watched the wrestling match for a few more minutes when he set the knife and fork down symmetrically on the plate, clasped his chubby hands together and stared at me. “What now?”

  “Nice to see you too.”

  I looked around the joint. Calling it dingy came as a compliment. I wanted to clean the grease from the soles of my shoes. “Looks like they've kept the standards up around here.”

  Callaway grunted. I knew he liked The Embassy because no cop would set foot in the place. It was owned by a guy named Enzo Carlucci who'd spent 15 years in Kingston pen for first-degree murder. The victim had been a cop. Callaway hadn't believed that Carlucci was the guy. Sure, he'd been mixed up with some bad characters and sainthood would never be bestowed on him by the pope but Callaway proved he didn't pull the trigger either, that the evidence had been tainted. Well, more than tainted, reeked to high heaven.

  On his release, Carlucci sued the police department for wrongful conviction and Callaway testified for him. That didn't go down too well with the brass. With the cash he'd been given by the court, Carlucci bought The Embassy. The question remained why. It looked like a place where hoodlums hung out all night and smelled even worse. Clearly, Carlucci hadn't plowed any of his gelt into the décor or the kitchen either. Callaway figured he was doing his job, looked hard at the evidence in the case, felt it lacked hugely in credibility and went about the business of being a cop. He found the shooter and got Carlucci sprung. Didn't stop other cops from resenting him, even hating him for it. Made the department look bad and worse, bumbling and incompetent.

  The chief at the time, Phil Bevins, lost his job over it. The mayor, Ziggy Callwood, fired Bevins for making the city look stupid. Now, Callaway had become an untouchable. If he got the can, the press would scream payback for Carlucci. So he'd become a pariah on the force and the only guy who'd work with him was a weasel like Roy Mason—even then he hadn't been given any choice. So Callaway ate his dinner in a shithole like The Embassy where no one would bother him, except me, of course.

  “Am I going to like this?” Callaway asked. He drained the shot and set the tumbler down on the scarred wooden tabletop.

  I shrugged. “Maybe this is just a social call.”

  Callaway snorted. “Blow another one by me, why don't'cha?”

  “Okay. It's not a social call.” A busboy scurried over and cleared Callaway's plate.

  Callaway pointed to the
glass and the kid nodded.

  “You?” he asked me.

  I shook my head. I couldn't be sure what pissoir the stuff came from even if the labels on the bottles looked glued in place. The kid took off into the kitchen and Callaway ripped out a belch. He grimaced. I felt his pain and smelled it too.

  “So, what's eating you?” he asked.

  I thought, briefly, about making a crack about the shoe leather that passed for his dinner but held back. I held back a few other things too. “Had a chat with Mrs. Lawson,” I said.

  The kid bustled over and replenished Callaway's drink. He took a gulp. “Oh yeah? Do tell?”

  “You haven't heard from hubby?”

  “He was there?”

  I nodded. “Stopped in for his pre-lunch martini after slugging it out at the office for an hour or so.”

  “It's a rough life.”

  “So?”

  Callaway shook his head. “Not a peep–or you woulda heard from me before now.”

  “That's what I figured. The guy's a lot of show with nothing behind it.”

  Callaway checked his watch–a pretty nice-looking Bulova. He caught my eye. “Anniversary gift from my wife,” he said.

  “Nice.”

  “My reward for 25 years of suffering,” he added drily. “So, do I have to ask?” And he tapped a stubby forefinger against his temple.

  “Sure,” I said. “Not a lot of detail in that police report you sent on Henry Turner.”

  “Not a lot of detail to put in either. Besides, I didn't write the report.”

  “Do you remember the officer that pulled Alison Foster and her friends over the night they were joyriding?”

  Callaway rubbed his face as if he didn't quite believe what he heard. “No, I don't remember.”

  “Can you find out?”

  “I'll call you. What else you got?”

  “One of Alison Foster's pals was a kid named Rance Callaway. That mean anything to you?”

  Callaway sighed heavily. “Wondered when you'd get to it. Yeah. My kid sister's son. My nephew.”

  “You didn't say anything.”

  “That's right.” And his voice took on an edge. “Didn't see the point at the time. Figured you'd understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “That kids do stupid things sometimes, well, maybe in his case, a lot of the time.”

  “He wasn't driving the car.”

  “No, he wasn't, thank god.”

  “How'd he know Alison Foster? I'm guessing she'd be out of his league.”

  “You got that right. Rance didn't know her. He knew the boyfriend.”

  “Harvey Troyer. They knew each other from school?”

  Callaway shook his head. “Rance left school when he was 16. He, uh, worked for the Troyer family as an apprentice gardener. Got to know the son and the rest, as they say, is history. The Troyer kid liked to live life on the edge.”

  “Did he know Henry Turner?”

  “I don't know. I don't think so. How would he?”

  I knew Callaway didn't like this. Usually he'd peppering a witness with questions. “Not sure. Just thought I'd ask. Where's the kid now?”

  “Back living with my sister.”

  “And her old man?”

  “Gone. Took off years ago. Merchant seaman. He kept staying away longer and longer. Then finally, he just never came back. Good riddance. When he was on leave, he sat around the house and drank. And he wasn't a pleasant drunk.”

  “Sounds tough.”

  “What if it was? People deal with worse.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I'm not accusing anyone of anything.”

  “She's my kid sister and I look out for her.”

  “What's the kid do in his spare time?

  “Works in haulage. Drives for some company or other. Spends a lot of time picking stuff up at the docks.”

  “What sort of stuff?”

  “Don't know. You'll have to ask him.”

  I put my hands out. “Okay, I will. You got an address?”

  Callaway nodded, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his pad.

  After rummaging around in the side pocket, he found a pencil and jotted down his sister's address, ripped the sheet off the pad and tossed it on the table.

  “You'll find him home most days around four. He works the early shift.”

  “I just need to ask him a few questions.”

  “Sure.”

  “Won't take long.”

  “I said sure.” He raised his glass and signaled to the kid for a refill. He caught my look. “I'm off duty–not that I have to explain myself to you.”

  “Didn't say you did.”

  “Damn right.” The kid brought the bottle over and splashed in a generous measure, then faded to the other side of the bar where he continued wiping out the glasses with a dirty dishtowel.

  I thought about what to say next and whether I ought to mention the feds but something held me back. “Guess I'll shove off. Look, uh, don't let them get to you,” I said.

  Callaway held on to the tumbler like it was a life jacket.

  “Not much choice. The girls are about to start college and I'm not ready to work as a hotel dick or run security in Eaton's department store. So I take whatever shit they throw at me. Just have to wait'em out, that's all. I'm good at that–waiting.”

  “Sure you are. The best.”

  “I'll get you the cop's name.”

  “Thanks.”

  Callaway nodded, then drained the glass. As I left, he held it up for another refill.

  16

  I drove back to the office and parked the Chevy in the back alleyway. I lived in the third floor flat. More of a shoebox with two rooms, a kitchen and a toilet with stand-up shower. If I hadn't been mulling over my conversation with Callaway, I might have been on guard. Just as I slipped the key into the steel reinforced door, they came for me. Melted out of the shadows and caught me with my back turned. Three of them dressed in black with balaclavas covering their faces.

  Two of them pulled my jacket over my shoulders pinning my arms while the third came toward me with his fists balled up. I lashed out with my right foot and caught him square in the groin. He grunted in pain doubling over. I put another one into the soft tissue of his gut using the two goons on either side to support my weight when I kicked up. They didn't expect that. My fun was short-lived though. My buddies didn't let go and I'd only winded the other guy, who after a moment, pushed himself straight and approached me warily. As he came closer, I spat into his eyes goading him into making a mistake. He hissed, wiping away the spittle with one forearm. He landed the first punch—a decent right cross that caught me on the jaw but I could tell his hands were soft and if my luck held, he'd break a few fingers.

  “Come on girlie, you can hit harder than that,” I said.

  “You freakin bastard,” he spat.

  “Thanks,” I replied and managed to form a tight-jawed grin.

  He gave me two more good shots to the head then one to the body that had the full English and I doubled over in pain. They let me go as I coughed some blood and that's when the other two decided to get in on the fun. I sagged down to my knees and the three of them worked me over getting their shots in with hands and feet. I'd never been on the receiving end of it like that but I'd seen it plenty of times. Cops working suspects over in the cells picking their spots where the damage hovered on maximum and the bruising minimal. I drowned, lost track of time, sat on the edge of some other place. Finally, I thought I heard one of them say, “Enough”. And I imagined that the other two dragged the first guy away but not before he got in one last kick that caught me flush in the temple. That one put me out for the count. I don't remember colliding with the pavement.

  17

  I dreamt that I rode the Grey Ghost headed for England but the ship had been torpedoed. I swallowed water and woke up sputtering. It took a few years to bring things into focus but a facecloth smothered me and I gagged, then swatted it
away thinking the bad guys had come for me again. I heard a high-pitched cry of surprise. The guy really was a girlie, except–the back alley had disappeared and I lay in someone's bed. The room looked vaguely familiar but I couldn't place it.

  “How are you feeling, Mr. Gold?” a voice belonging to Aida Turner asked and when I took a look, her face and body seemed attached to it too.

  I shifted my back but felt nothing but pain radiating up and down my spine and my legs. The boys had done a good job. They could be proud.

  “How do I look?” I asked.

  Aida Turner actually chuckled. “Are you that vain?”

  “Yes,” I breathed.

  “Let me get you a mirror then.”

  I felt her weight lift off the bed and soft shoe taps disappeared into another room. A moment later, the taps returned. She held a mirror out in front of me. I took a look. All things considered, it wasn't too bad, not as bad as I felt. I had a split lip and a nasty bruise that looked like a rotting eggplant embedded in my right temple. Apart from the complexion of week-old fruit, I looked almost human. I put a finger in my mouth and probed around. No loose teeth. Another blessing. My eyes were bloodshot like I'd been on a bender.

  “Hhmmph.”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  “Uh-huh. Oh yeah. How'd I get here?”

  I could see her face now and it filled, full of concern.

  “Your large friend brought you here. I told him you belonged in a hospital but he wouldn't hear of it. Said God would look after you. I think he wanted me to feel guilty.”

  I tried to laugh but it came out more like a sick wheeze.

  “Sounds like Birdie. We try to avoid hospitals when we can, Mrs. Turner. The rooms cost a bundle and the food is lousy too. But thank you for your kindness.”

  I made a supreme effort and managed to lift my chest off the bed about an inch. With a forefinger, she pushed me back down again.

  “No you don't, Mr. Gold. You need your rest and my Henry's room is available. Besides, whoever your friends were, they won't look for you here. But I must confess, it troubles me that this happened to you because of your search for my son. It troubles me a great deal.”